


The Gabriel Effect

by AreaChickie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bangkok, Castiel needs to put a leash on Gabriel, Chaos Ensues, Everyone is a different version of themselves throughout time, Gabriel Being Gabriel (Supernatural), Gabriel left Heaven, Historical References, I am a tasteless individual, I have no idea what's gonna happen next, M/M, New York City, Now I've just dated myself, Opportunistic angels, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pseudo-History, Rhode Island - Freeform, Sorry this is a bit "Quantum Leap"y, Trickster Gabriel (Supernatural), because seriously, figuratively not literally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26322058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreaChickie/pseuds/AreaChickie
Summary: Well, well, well… plot bunnies had me out there in space and time, and when I came back, this is what they commanded, so I wrote it. (Sure, Chickie, that’s exactly how it happened.)These are meant to be slashy “historical fiction” timestamps/one shots featuring the theme, “How many times did Gabriel the Trickster manage to wreak havoc on Earth after he left Heaven?  Specifically, the times he wasn’t in Monte Carlo with endless porn stars and poker games?”There are multiple AU incarnations of the Winchester boys, of course. And Castiel (everybody’s favorite angel warrior/ therapy lap dog) is there to make certain that Gabe’s escape from Heaven doesn’t involve too much mayhem.  Plus, someone needs to be in charge of molesting Dean from time to time.Be gentle; though I typically write Transformers G1 and have written Harry Potter in the past, this is my first Supernatural fic. I’ll definitely be adding tags, as this fic probably won’t know when to up and die.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 2





	1. Bangkok.  1893.

The only sounds in the bedroom were the red-headed Sarus cranes trumpeting their mating calls across the Chao Phraya river as the sun began to set, inflaming the few, stray lingering clouds with spectacular crimson and salmon colors. July was a harsh and humid month, to be sure.

Furthermore; I get my kicks above the waistline, Samshine. The calling of the huge grey birds filtered in through Gabriel’s windows, the fluttering of the silken drapes heralding each desperate cry.

Inside, however, the ultimate rascal and alpha predator, Gabriel found himself coming down from an opium fueled sex-bender. And he never considered himself to be one for pillow talk. Why should he even bother? Do you talk to the greasy bones of a trussed quail after you’ve consumed all of its little tasty birdie parts? Heavens no!

Although when it did come down to talking— chatting incessantly and emptily— _that_ just seemed to be something Gabriel loved. Prattling on about this and that, sharp-tongued witticisms, wry observations and just plain bawdy innuendos all came easily to the British expat. As a matter of fact, he fancied himself to be a regular Oscar Wilde.

Gabriel _Shurley_. Why didn’t he go with Gabriel _Wilde_ instead of keeping Dad’s name? he mused thoughtfully of his new-hero-idol-of-the-moment, chomping the end of a cocoa candy cigar tainted with opium (actually, it was one of those new-fangled “Tootsie Roll” candies from the States; he’d laced the thing with opium and carefully kneaded the pliant candy into the shape of a fancy Cuban cigar just so he had something sugary, drug-filled and phallic in his mouth.)

Because he was, you know… Gabriel. 

Happily floating along in the wake of his stream-of-consciousness musings and listening to the gangly river birds calling out for sex, Gabriel sighed happily and reclined upon the many, many silk pillows on his divan, gazing languidly over at his very unresponsive companion of the evening. He chuckled softly (or perhaps, he snickered- didn’t matter, really; in the _future_ , Chuckles and Snickers would both make fine, fine candies.) 

But _only_ Gabriel would live long enough to see that.

Because Lord Gabriel Shurley had a secret. An extraordinary and fantastic secret, but a deadly serious secret, nonetheless. 

Lord Gabriel Shurley, opium smuggler, British outlaw, and enemy of France was not only instrumental in keeping the European powers guessing as to who really controlled of all that opium going out of Siam… he was also a rogue Archangel on the lam from Heaven, running from the sort of Angelic familial infighting and nasty bickering that would cause Humans to chase their destiny straight to the bottom of a vodka bottle every Thanksgiving. Thank Dad there was no such lunatic “family holiday of thanks” in Heaven. The Birth of Christ dinner fights were bad _enough_.

Gabriel continued to watch the statuesque young Adonis doze. 

_Ohhh, my dear poor boy_ , he thought. _Poor gorgeous, indefatigable, oversized man-boy._

The impressively long-shanked waif of an Aussie rent boy— barely _eighteen years of age_ — was blissed out in an opiate haze, his long, chestnut hair flopping about his chiseled face just so. He murmured happily in his sleep, then rolled over, revealing a nigh-on pornographic expanse of sculpted chest and taut abdomen draped carelessly in sage green and peach sheets.

Certainly, earlier that evening the boy had been half-nodding off and half-exuberant, taking all manner of exotic items up his ass as he puffed away on a lengthy tavern pipe crammed full of _Papaver somniferum_. Indeed, as Gabriel learned, the more bizarre, the better. The Archangel was putting those twenty-some odd alkaloids that mimicked the body’s own pleasure peptides (blah, blah, science, blah—Gabriel had little to no use for organic chemistry) to exceptionally good (very bad) use.

Anything made from ivory to jade to Pernambuco to beeswax candlesticks to some seriously off-putting _objets d’art_ crafted by locals from water buffalo dung went up that beautifully puckered love hole. So pink, so loose, so lubed… so much like a clown car in reverse. (And clown cars hadn’t even been invented yet! Chalk one up for opium!)

As the Aussie rent boy began to rouse from his slumber, Gabriel tackled him, pressing him down into the silk and goose down plushness. Hastily, he began to cover the young man’s neck and chest with a barrage of sloppy kisses, lapping and nipping and suckling his way down past the boy’s navel.

“Mmph!” cried the boy, though smiling languidly, still woozy from the opium laced candies fed to him by his petite, effete benefactor. “Lord Shurley, what energy you’ve got!” he managed. Shaking his head to clear it, his hazel eyes went from glazed to focused in a mere blink or three. “I must go now, Lord Shurley… I’ve had ever so much fun, but if my father knew whose ‘orchid gardens’ I’d been ‘watering’ this evening…”

Gabriel started. Oh, no, no, no. Not yet. “Hush, hush, my dear boy… What’s all this, then? I thought I’d contracted you to spend time with me until sun-up!” Gabriel continued his frantic ministrations, his hand wandering to the young man’s rapidly thickening cock. “Are you… are you trying to lea—"

“Yes,” answered the taller, younger man, pushing Gabriel away rather roughly and rising from the plush, silken divan. Gathering his knickers, shirt, waistcoat, and dinner jacket, he continued to make his intentions clear. “That’s _precisely_ what I’m saying. If Lord Winchester finds out his eldest rented out his youngest to the foulest, _most despicable smuggler and man-whore_ in the East, strips of your flayed flesh would be decorating every temple and wat from here clear to the ocean!” The young man shook his head with a heavy sadness that belied his years, and youthful hazel eyes fell to a dull-grey as silken brown locks flopped everywhere. He began to dress himself hastily.

Oh dear. Oh dear! Shit, this _mustn’t_ happen!

Gabriel flung himself from the divan with uncharacteristic urgency and, wrapping himself in a gold and sapphire colored robe, he called into the foyer, summoning his manservant James, who happened to be a luscious consort of his younger brother Castiel.

And a medical student.

“James! _S'il vous plaît! Rapidement! Apporter l'aiguille hypodermique!”_ Hopefully, the tall, muscled rent-boy didn’t speak French.

“What’s that about a hypodermic needle?” queried Sam.

Oh! _Merde_.

“ _James! Il s'enfuit! Verrouillez la porte! **Verrouillez la porte**!_”

In a heartbeat, the young rent-boy was upon him, a muscled forearm taut and unforgiving on his trachea. Gabriel struggled, gasping for breath, but the young man was placing pressure ever so cleverly on his carotid artery, blocking blood flow to his brain. Air or no air, Gabriel would be done for in a matter of sixty seconds or so without oxygen rich blood crossing over to his brain matter.

“Too late to lock the gate, Lord Shurley!” grunted the boy-man-giant as he effortlessly strangled the life from the saucy little aristocrat. “You’ve taken this burlesque one step too far! Tell your manservant to stand down with that damned syringe, unlock the gate and I’ll leave peacefully,” said the tall young man, never loosening his grasp on Gabriel’s throat. “Else, I’ll take this, erm… rather _uncomfortable collection_ of cheap suggestions and positively _nasty_ overtures directly to _Her Majesty._ ” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. Hazel eyes were nearly the color of an ocean before a storm.

_No mortal man should_ **be** _so handsome_ , thought Gabriel.

“The Queen’s men have been looking for you, after all, have they not? Of course, the French blockade is fun and all, but eventually someone is going to become wise to your schemes. Not to mention all the indecent encounters you’ve-”

“James! _Ça ne fait rien!”_ Never mind, James, he echoed in his head. _Never mind_.

The rent-boy released Gabriel, allowing the aristocratic little shitbag to slump to the crimson and tan tile floor. Gabriel had but only a moment to catch his breath.

“Your… fee… I’ll double it for your silence on this… *cough* matter… Sam.”

“Of course… I know you will.”

With that, Sam the rent-boy was gone, out the window with a pocketful of rubies and a few obscene gestures of his own invention. “No time for pillow talk, Lord Shurley!” Down of a thistle and all that rot.

Gabriel struggled to his feet before turning to his loyal manservant James. “Honestly, James… What’s a step too far when you’ve drugged the son of your enemy for an afternoon of truly explosive sex play?”

A beat.

Then laughter… laughter once more filled the tiled hallways of Shurley Manor in Bangkok. As well it should.

“Oh, Master Gabriel, you are a _caution_!” cried James, still giggling with the syringe full of laudanum and arsenic in his white-gloved hand. “Good show!”

“If one would like to be truly and brutally frank, I personally cannot wait until the boy gets home and watches as his elder brother attempts to pass that jade elephant I force-fed him yesterday,” sighed a dark voice from the shadowed foyer. It was Castiel, emerging from the shadows to join his brother and his consort. “Let him take _that_ trinket to Her Royal Highness.” Castiel sniffed his handkerchief casually before catching his weight upon a dresser.

Gabriel whirled about and cast his honey-colored eyes at his younger brother in mock astonishment. “Cassie! You did _no_ such thing!”

The tall, lean, blue-eyed gentleman in the khaki safari suit only offered a wry smile as he puffed blue smoke from that damnably ostentatious meerschaum pipe he’d affected upon their arrival in the Orient. “Brother… you don’t even want to _begin_ to comprehend what I did to the elder Winchester brother that evening.”

“Oh!” Gabriel continued to feign indignant shock for a beat before looking upon his younger brother with awe. “So… our little fuck toys have been ruined?”

“Utterly.”

“Breathtakingly?”

Castiel rolled his eyes before perching himself on a corner the rumpled and debauched divan. “Yes, Gabriel, very much so.”

“And… we’re safe from the Queen’s Navy once more. It was worth the rubies Sam got away with… or, shall I say, the handful of _useless_ _paste jewels_ he managed to nick before he went out the window.” Gabriel clapped his hands together gleefully. “Oh, my _Chuckie_ in Heaven, he’s _soooo_ screwed!” Gabriel flopped over triumphantly and clutched a silken pillow under his chin.

“So… who’s up for some more opium? Eh, brother?”

“I cannot,” came Castiel’s dark and solemn reply. Still perched on the corner of the divan, the typically stalwart Seraph swayed ever so slightly. Then, he swayed more than ever so slightly. Then, he proceeded to dip and bob about comically before managing to regain his composure.

“Why’s that, baby bro?”

“Because…” Castiel began, as his vessel’s eyelids slid shut. He slumped backwards, reclining on the bed whilst fumbling his meerschaum into a crystal ashtray. “I found a poppy field.”

“And I smoked it.”

“Oh, dear Chuckles!”

Gabriel’s adventures in Bangkok weren’t nearly as calamitous for him as the events in New England the previous year had been. That mess had simply been… a total “clusterfuck, except for the hot freak with the orchard” as Castiel would later describe it a century later, complete with inimitably awkward air quotes. 

Indeed. 

Because that was Castiel’s style. He swore up and down that he’d never truly “get the hang of” (and, yes… even more awkward air quotes) the peculiarities of the North American Human’s vernacular, even if he practiced and practiced well into the “new millennium” of their measured time.

Shall we go there now?


	2. New York.  1976.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for two things:  
> ONE!!! This is totally out of order; however, seeing as it's a collection of historical time-jumps, I hope y'all don't take the umbrage.  
> TWO!!! There's no real slash; instead, I worked to build on Gabriel and Sammy having a solid relationship.
> 
> CHAPTER THREE WILL HAVE VAMPIRES, CORPSES AND DESTIEL! I SWEAR!!!

Maybe I’ll be better off as a dog this time, thought Gabriel.

Urgh… woe betide the absolutely _horrid_ life of an archangel who’s, not as such, permitted to be an actual archangel or use the powers inherent therein. Oh, how I long for the days when I could simply show up among a bunch of shepherds in the Middle East, all four of my faces and all six sexy wings-a-blazin’!!!

********* Flashback to (Allegedly) The Birth of Christ *********

“Boo-yah, shepherds!” hollered Gabriel, Archangel of the Lord and apparently the biggest embarrassment to Heaven since that whole “We let the humans eat the fruit incident.”

Fuckin’ snakes.

“Be not afraid! I bring you good tidings! See? Here’s my magnificent angel cock!!”

And Gabriel had _no_ compunction about flopping that **_magnificent_ **member hither and thither.

And.. of course, absolutely none of that went well. Many poor shepherds were left blinded and helpless on hillsides, none of them could’ve located a giant glimmering star in the sky if their very **_lives_ **had depended on it.

“Oh, shit… these fuckers are absolutely no fun at all.” Gabriel quickly sought himself a “vessel;” that is, a willing follower with doubtless faith.

Fortunately, one of the shepherds was quick to drop down and shield his eyes. He trembled on the sandy grass as he felt Gabriel approach, yet he never turned his eyes to see who spoke to him. “Ohhh... Please! Angel of the Lord… do with me what thou wilt,” chattered the nervous and petite man. 

His face was muddied and somewhat bruised, but his golden-brown eyes were so earnest and so true and searching. This man, indeed, was devout, and could be a vessel.

“Praise God! Praise Yahweh!” cried the man forlornly, going on and on, feebly clutching at few of his deeper wounds. His hair was a dirty blond, and his body was firm, muscled and compact yet strong. This vessel is a good vessel, thought Gabriel. For the next thousand years or so, I can pine and search for **_him_**. 

My Samuel.

_**Samual**_. The Destroying Angel. In Heaven, whenever Gabriel could see Sam’s soul, it appeared… hazily. As clustered, sage green twigs. Tufted, downy-tinged branches of masculine strength confused with the brown-gold down on the antlers of a young, rutting stag. That was how Gabriel saw his Samuel.

To envision the way Sam's wings _might_ manifest _were_ he an Angel with the power of Grace, just add glitter. Pfft! No... Add sage green and Jim Henson sensibilities. Kermit-the-frog harmlessness, with the kind reassurance of Rolf.

Sam... He’s no Bringer of Destruction, thought Gabriel. He’s the One meant for me.

So, in early Summer 1976, Gabriel craved a simple life. Ached for it. He went to Yonkers, a borough of New York City, and manifested himself as a simple and most adorable Corgi. A Corgi fit for a, well… anybody. He simply wanted a companion.

A Corgi. Yeah… I bet life is comfortable for Corgis.

A lovely man named Sam adopted Gabriel the Corgi, and a fast friendship was forged. Gabriel would prance about as Sam tossed him Milk Bones from his perch upon the roof of his brother’s black ’67 Impala.

“Awww… C’mon! Just lookit him, De!”

And Gabriel would “CLOMP” his jaws down on another yummy Milk Bone.

“Who’s a good boy? Whoosa good boy?”

And Gabriel would answer, “Rowf! I ram, Sam! You’re my Daddy Dog! Rowf!”

“See, Dean? I swear… He can practically talk!” Sam was too happy to be true. 

Dean pulled another mouthful of beer from the neck of his Sam Adams and winced. “Sammy… I think you’re imagining things.” 

Sam ignored his brother. “You’re my good puppy! Yes, you are! Yes, you’re my lil’ boy, yes, you are, boo boo boo puppy.” He patted the stout little Corgi on his eager head. Cradling the loving dog's snout, he leaned in for a sloppy kiss.

And a... pants-crappy sort of message...

“Rowf! Rowf, rowf! Rarf Rarf!"

"Yes, puppy... barky bark..."

"Go out and kill! Rarf! Kill! Rarf! Father Sam commands it! I am Son of Sam. And I want blood! Rowf! ROWF ROWF!”

If the afternoon could have become more still than it already was… it did. Late summer birds all of a sudden knew to take their leave. Not even crickets or cicadas could pierce the humid summer and all the foreboding doom.

“Dean? Did you just…” Sam shook his gorgeous head, with his too-much-hair flopping around. Dean just grimaced.

“Son… of… a… BITCH!”

So of course, this will NOT end well.

↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔

“Dean! The guy shot Gabe! My _dog_. Crazy Dave shot my dog with a fuckin’ .44!” 

Dean made the most supreme bitchface. “You know this isn’t good, Sam. I _told_ you that guy was unhinged, and you had to go and let your _magic_ fuckin’ talking dog have a chat with him. Now the guy’s got a serial killer nickname and everything.”

“But Dean!”

“No buts! Get whatever you can into Baby in ten—”

“But Dean! My dog! My poor Gabe!”

“Sam? Listen. Car. Ten minutes. We gotta go back to Kansas.”

“Dean?”

“WHAT _NOW_ , SAMMY?”

“Do we really need to _listen_ to Kansas on our way _back_ to Kansas?”

“Yes, Sammy. Yes, we do.”


End file.
